


Beams From the Hollow

by thebriars



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Overuse of italics, sisterly squabbles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-13 06:04:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16887021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebriars/pseuds/thebriars
Summary: She knew they would never talk like this again, probably. They’d be a lady and a chauffeur, not friends, or even humans, really. Sybil would be stiff and she would have to titter lightly at the societal quips her mother wielded like darts and Branson would have to offer his hand to her as she climbed into the motor and it would all be so terribly, terribly awkward.•••Sybil's soulmark has always been confusing, and with the arrival of the mysteriously charming chauffeur, nothing was going to get easier.





	1. Gray's Anatomy

**Author's Note:**

> well hello: i wanted to test the waters here with a short little one shot and now i have 14000 words and only half a soul.
> 
> some info: in this au, soulmate words are the first time your soulmate wants to say or means ‘I love you’ (so, sometimes it is ‘I love you’, but it is often something else). also, one your soulmate says your words, they turn a color related to that person as, like, verification. tropey but ohhhh well. also, i'll be sticking as close to i can as the canon timeline, with some liberties taken for tybil purposes
> 
> the title quote is: "We do not make beams from the hollow, decaying trunk of a fallen oak. We use the upsoaring of the tree in the full vigor of its sap." -Sylvia Pankhurst

**1899**

There was something odd about Sybil Crawley, and everyone knew it: even her.

While her sisters played with dolls and argued over which of their miniatures would get to claim the handsome love interest, Sybil was evading the governess to sneak into her father’s library and page through the biggest books she could find. Once Mary and Edith had shown her the hidden door behind the bookshelf in the nursery, she had taken it upon herself to map out the complex system of narrow passages between rooms, and when she was old enough to have her own room, she had requested one with a door in the back of the closet so she could slip down to the library in the dead of night, unseen.

Sybil took joy in such little thrills, stifled as her day life was, and nicked books on everything from politics to philosophy to anatomy. She buried herself in Marx and Wilde and Bronte until she drowned in the yellowed pages and ink. Her father turned a blind eye to her antics while her mother allowed her youngest daughter to relish her relatively unchained childhood with a sort of stilted pity. It wouldn’t last long, after all.

Her rather conniving American grandmother sent a hefty volume titled _Gray’s Anatomy_ one Christmas, and Sybil threw herself into its callous text without hesitation until her father deemed it a danger to her sanity and locked it away somewhere. She’d cried a hurricane but had clung to the notes she took on its subject matter like an anchor, particularly the scribbled question in the margin about a mention of soulmarks. Sybil knew little of soulmates besides awareness of their existence, and the passages on them she had read in a romance novel once (before her mother snatched it away). The idea of being tied to someone, however distantly, was reassuring, especially on the nights she missed _Gray’s_ or when her father huffed in thinly-disguised annoyance when she tried to wean political information off of him.

There was someone perfectly suited to her out there- someone who would understand her, which seemed a rarity in a world where a meaningless title and lavish dinner parties made one superior.

 

**1906**

 

One day, on a late summer’s afternoon when the heat felt tired and the darkness was creeping earlier and earlier into the evening, Sybil asked an important question.

“Mary,” she said, the three of them laying together on the floor of Edith’s room, watching the sky fade to orange through her windows, “what do you know about soulmates?”

“Aunt Rosamund likes them,” Edith said haughtily, already infatuated with their mysterious city-dwelling aunt. She liked knowing she wasn’t the only one with red hair.

“Granny says Aunt Rosamund is sarcastically romantic,” Mary said, disdainfully pulling at a loose carpet thread by her side. Edith coughed, scandalized by the slander of her inspiration. “She says soulmates are for commoners. It gives them hope and happiness in a drab life.”

“You stole that from Augustine.”

“I did not. I stole it from Granny.” Mary, who was consistently frustrated by Sybil’s tendency to spew philosophy at the dinner table, stewed for a moment. Edith relished in the silence.

“Mama says not to listen to Granny. Mama says my soulmate is going to be lovely, and Aunt Rosamund agrees.” Edith sounded proud, and Sybil couldn’t help but pity her. Mary was pretty and sharp and was probably going to be the heir someday- everything Edith desperately wanted. Sybil knew how she felt, living in the shadows of their splendid older sister. Sometimes the whole estate seemed to disappear in the face of Mary’s specter. She loomed. At least Edith had her soulmark to pride over- she was right. It was beautiful.

Mary returned quickly from her silence to scoff. “What does it matter, anyway? We’re not going to be marrying our soulmates.”

Sybil’s stomach turned sour. “Mary, what do you mean?”

“She means that we’ll be married off to be rich, not for love,” Edith said, rather indifferently. “But that doesn’t matter for _me_.”

Mary stood faster than seemed possible and stormed out of the room, leaving Sybil stunned and Edith morbidly satisfied. She slammed the door behind her and Edith laughed disdainfully.

“She’s silly.”

“I think you’re being mean,” Sybil said, rising to follow her sister. Edith looked hurt for a second before returning to her oddly cruel demeanor.

“I think she deserved it.”

Sybil left after that too, but the bad feeling had settled in her stomach. She didn’t have a mark yet- not until she was fifteen- but since Edith’s birthday had been so recent, it was all she had thought about for nearly a month.

Edith’s said _you inspire me_ , and the handwriting was too perfect to be anyone other than someone intelligent and rich. Their mother had nearly jumped for joy at the discovery, and Edith had happily resigned herself to her eventual marriage of perfection, glad to have something the others didn’t for once. Sybil had never heard talk of, much less seen, Mary’s mark, but it seems Edith knew something, something she wasn’t supposed to. It had seemed lovely until Sybil realized she’d have to wait several years to get her own, but now the idea that, even then, it may just be as if it never existed at all, was going to be nagging at her for eternity.

She shook the thought for the time being and followed the hall to Mary’s favorite spot- an alcove near the top of the servant’s staircase- tracking the sound of muffled sniffles. Mary had her face pressed up into her knees, and she looked rather embarrassed to be comforted by her youngest sister. After all, she was sixteen and felt a sense of motherhood towards Sybil that was quite unnecessary and unprecedented. Sybil sank to the ground beside her and rested her hand carefully on Mary’s shoulder.

They sat together for a long time until Anna came up from downstairs to get them all dressed for dinner with one of their father’s old comrades. She simply brushed a careful hand over Mary’s hair in comfort and went on to find Edith first, and Sybil praised the Lord for giving them a friend such as Anna. Mary took a great shuddering breath and pushed dried tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. Sybil watched with brow furrowed as Mary pulled the shoulder of her dress down to reveal neat, methodical writing, and turned away when Sybil bent over to scrutinize it.

“ _God knows I wish the best for you-_ oh, _Mary_.” Sybil touched her fingers softly to the skin and glanced up to see a sort of stone in Mary’s eyes she had never noticed before. Determination and anger and unimaginable grief rolled into a glare and a tense jaw and Sybil wondered how long Mary had hated herself.

“They’re parting words,” she said, no longer sniffling. “What sort of soulmate leaves the woman they love?” Her voice was cold and piercing and it made Sybil want to cry, too.

“I’m sure there will be good reason,” she tried, for she’d read stories of words that weren’t what they seemed. At the very least, there was a noble edge to the cruel words. To say goodbye when you wanted to say _I love you_ must take great courage.

Mary rounded onto Sybil, stone turned to fire. “Good reason to hate me? God, Sybil; you just don’t understand!” She stomped away, yet again, and Sybil was left alone in the alcove, struck by a powerful sadness.

Poor, poor Mary.

 

•••

 

Sybil didn’t speak to Edith for the whole evening and felt mean for doing so, but Mary looked pleased when Edith sat alone on the end of a divan after dinner, and Mary did so deserve some small pleasure. The visiting comrade told Sybil she had immense capability when she asked him about his role in the Treaty of Vereeniging, so she went to bed feeling proud and bubbly despite the sorrowful day.

She pressed her fingers to her sternum as she lay beneath the sheets and wondered if the writing would go there, or perhaps on the inside of her wrist, or the small of her back. She smiled to herself and wriggled happily, electing to forget about Mary’s strife and her sisters’ increasingly brutal feud until the morning.

 

**1910**

 

Sybil awoke on her fifteenth birthday with a pit in her stomach. She lay in bed for nearly an hour before gathering the courage to ring for Anna. Even so, once Anna arrived (with a hoard of Crawleys in tow), she couldn’t stomach rising for another ten minutes. Mary stood near the door as a sullen reminder of how badly it could go.

Anna whispered encouragement to her while she fluffed the pillows and Sybil put on a brave smile as she stood, sending a cursory glance at her hands and arms as she did so. Nothing.

Edith gasped. “I see something!”

Dread washed over her like a bitter wave and she turned so fast she nearly fell, craning her neck to look down her back. “What? What, Edith, where?”

“There’s something dark on your hip. I can see it through your shift.” She sounded choked with anticipation. Sybil’s hands were shaking as she ducked behind the changing screen to lift the hem of her nightgown up to her waist. There, right on her hip bone, there was something scrawled in tight, angled handwriting.

“Anna?” she called, twisting this way and that to try and read the writing. It was upside down to her, so all she could make out was a few distinctive letters. Anna ducked behind the screen with her and, seeing her terrified expression, smiled in reassurance.

“It says _the rest is detail_ , milady.”

“Oh, God,” Sybil said, an unbidden sob lodged in her throat.

“Happy tears, I hope,” Anna whispered, and Sybil pressed their hands together in thanks. A grin was beginning to work its way across her face, and the pit in her stomach split like a peach to give way to a surge of joy that traveled up into her heart and made her want to jump about and twirl like a little girl again. Anna laughed giddily and gave her a gentle push out into the room again.

Her mother stood with her fingers caught on her bottom lip, expectant, while her father stood with a stiff pride and a masked smile as Sybil bounced out into the room. Mary turned her head in disgust and Edith giggled, hands clasped in excitement.

 _“The rest is detail,”_ Sybil said smugly.

“Whatever does that _mean_?” Edith cried.

“I don’t know, but it’s excellent!”

Mary coughed. “We should give Sybil some space.”

Her mother smiled softly. “Quite right, darling, but many congratulations to Sybil.”

While being swarmed in a flurry of embraces, Sybil met Mary’s eyes. Her eyes screamed betrayal and Sybil wanted to curl up like a bug under the pin of Mary’s stiff gaze. Her lip twitched, and she slipped out of the room while Sybil’s head was turned.


	2. A Letter Opener

**1912**

 

Edith cried when the news of Patrick’s death came to them, two years later. Patrick had never said her words. Sybil held her on her bed and wondered how many times she’d have to comfort her sisters over broken hearts, or if they’d ever have to comfort her.

 

**1913**

 

“I’ve hired a new chauffeur,” her father said offhandedly, and a peculiar feeling nestled in her chest.

“Really?”

“He’s political. Rather peculiar, an Irishman, but a good fellow.”

Sybil ducked her head over her journal. “I shall have to meet him.” The feeling jolted and sent her hand skittering over the page, leaving a trail of ink over her writing.

 

•••

 

It was just barely light out when Sybil took the passage down to the library, sneaking out from the fake panel behind a column and tiptoeing carefully to the locked cabinet by her father’s desk. The sunrise made the red of the room glow and her skin looked rosy and golden in the otherworldly lighting. Her hair was twisted over her shoulder, her clothing was simple, and she felt more like Sybil than she ever had before.

She was just crouching down to unlock the cabinet with the key she had nicked from her father’s room, on her way to _Gray’s_ again at long last, when the main door clicked open and slowly swung out into the room. She froze, praying it was a sister or Daisy come to stoke the fire, and stayed low, hidden by her father’s desk.

It was someone else altogether, someone she’d never seen before, who slipped into the room. He was wearing simple black-and-white servant’s livery and was admittedly very good looking and Sybil glanced around nervously in search of something sharp to use as a weapon. There was a letter opener dropped under the desk and she darted forward to grab it, clutching it tightly in her fist. Should she yell? No, they’d ask why she was in the library in the first place. She could confront the man, though he was much taller than she and, from the look of the way his shirt stretched over his shoulders, much stronger, too.

_God_. Why was she admiring a stranger, much less one who was intruding in her father’s library?

She stayed still and watched him move slowly along the shelves, fingers ghosting over the leather spines with a sort of care that Sybil would recognize in the mirror. The feeling that had long ago settled in her chest stirred again like Isis after a long nap and Sybil clasped her hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.

The man didn’t look nervous, and from the way he treated the library with the care normally provided to infants or small animals, he didn’t seem dangerous. Sybil rose carefully, hoping to catch him by surprise. She tucked the letter opener into the waist of her skirt and dropped the key down her shirt, leaning gently against her father’s chair, hoping to look casual.

“Can I help you?” she said, and he spun quickly, a volume of Locke in his hands. His eyes were a piercing blue and Sybil suddenly felt as though she had been shot. Guilt and surprise crossed his face in equal parts, and Sybil felt rather bad for shocking him so.

He stuttered for a second before composing himself. “I’m sorry, milady, I had no intentions of intruding or frightening you.”

Sybil scoffed. “I wasn’t frightened.”

“There’s a letter opener in your skirt,” he deadpanned, and Sybil thanked God for the rosy lighting concealing her flushed cheeks. She liked him at once, despite all reason and his seeming disregard for class and the respect he was supposed to give her.

“May I ask what you’re doing in my library at such an hour?” Sybil said, electing to ignore his comment.

“Your father gave me permission to borrow some books, and I would rather not cross paths with any of your sisters, so I came here when I thought no one would be awake,” he said, tucking Locke under his arm.

Sybil glanced around. “Well, then, if you need help finding anything, just ask.”

“Really?” he said, brows up in his hairline.

“I’m not going to kick you out,” Sybil laughed. “I was merely surprised to see someone I didn’t recognize perusing the stacks.”

A small smile twitched on his lips. “Thank you then, Lady…?”

“Sybil. I’m the youngest.”

“Branson, the new chauffeur,” he offered before turning back to the shelves, craning his neck to see up to the top rows. “Well, actually, do you know if you’ve got any Marx?”

Sybil, shocked still by the intense waves of emotion surging through her veins, nodded. “Oh, yes, plenty. They’d be over on the other end, though, with most of the politics.”

Branson smiled over his shoulder, a real smile, soft and smart. “Thank you, milady. Are you well versed in politics?”

“I suppose so,” Sybil said, rather surprised with herself for accepting Branson so quickly, as well as the realization that she was probably the third most politically aware person in the family, after her father and Matthew, of course. “I’m rather fond of Marx.”

“Do you read anything of the Pankhursts?” Branson had moved farther down the wall to the politics and was flicking through titles with ease. Sybil came to his side to point out the Marx volumes towards the top.

“No, sadly. Papa won’t let any suffragette materials within an hour of Downton.”

“I could get my hands on some,” he offered.

“Really? That’d be splendid.”

“You’re rather odd, you know, milady. Not like the rest of your lot.” There was a bemused humor in his voice that made Sybil relax, which was in equally terrifying and fascinating. She wondered if _Gray’s_ had any information on such symptoms.

“My lot? You mean the Crawleys or the aristocracy?”

“Both. Aren’t the Crawleys aristocrats?”

“Well, yes,” Sybil said. She paused, wondering if she could summon the gall to be truly witty with him. She decided she could, which was rather exciting. “The same could be said for you. If Carson heard you talking to me in such a way, you’d be out by the ear before you could say ‘Grantham’.” Sybil laughed nervously, hoping Branson would find her anything but terribly forward and pulling a well-worn copy of _The Wealth of Nations_ and paging through it with a practiced hand.

“We’ll have to keep quiet, then, milady,” Branson joked, and his light response caused relief to wash over Sybil. The need to impress Branson was strong and strange, but from the flirty smile he sent her over the top of a volume of Byron was nothing but reassurance and encouragement for her odd behavior.

She shook herself, which did little to keep her mind from its wild adventures through fantasy and sudden fancy.

His hands are really quite nice, Sybil thought, and they were: strong and sturdy and ever so slightly stained with oil.

“What were you doing in here originally? Oh, is that Dickens over there?” He was flighty, almost, moving quickly between shelves and books with confidence and meaning.

“Yes, Papa keeps fiction on those rows. And it was nothing of importance.”

“Doubtful. You seem the person to do everything with a purpose.”

The way he said it was matter-of-fact and yet sincere and Sybil felt like Artemis watching Orion, something dangerous blooming between them. She stood quietly to the side, trying to think of a response that would keep her safe enough.

“You think highly of me, Branson.”

“I suppose I do.”

He was handsome indeed, with icy eyes and warm hair and a lean, sturdy build. Sybil wondered what his hands would feel like on her waist, or his lips on hers, whether his hair would be soft or coarse between her fingers-

She jolted back, incredulous and more than a little terrified of her own absurd thoughts. He was distracted enough not to notice her odd movement, eyes locked in wonder on the sheer number of books. Sybil suddenly felt like she was going to cry.

“This isn’t normal, is it? To talk like this right away, especially people like us.”

Branson suddenly jerked away from the shelves to look at her in confusion, the tiniest bit of hurt flashing across his eyes. “What’s different about us? We’re humans, aren’t we?”

Sybil deflated. “Yes, we are, though I think that is often forgotten.” She had turned bitter in an instant, thinking of the way her family disregarded the staff and trod upon them like a cheap carpet- a dime a dozen at the local market.

He eyed her curiously. “I know what you mean.”

Silence fell upon the library again and Sybil went to return the letter opener. She took the chance to compose herself as Branson went to the registry to check out her books. It was absurd to have such conversations with a chauffeur she had known for less than fifteen minutes, and yet Sybil felt as though talking in any other way would be nearly a sin. It would be akin to silencing a pastor or taking the pen from a writer. The stilted way of speaking between the upstairs and downstairs was cruel in its restrictions, so why shouldn’t Sybil and Branson talk as friends?

She walked over to the registry, where Branson was putting away the pen, hoping she looked calm, as a lady always should.

Branson straightened, and she was struck by his height yet again. He really was so handsome. “Where did you come from, by the way? Earlier, I mean.”

Sybil grinned and tapped her temple teasingly. “I know Downton better than I know myself.”

“I hope you can teach me it someday,” Branson said, eyes too focused to be joking. Sybil felt like a piece of paper in the hands on an unruly child, crumpling in around herself with every sincere word he spoke.

Her perfect hostess smile faltered and a sadness washed over her. They would never talk like this again, probably. Next time she saw him, Sybil would be accompanied by her mother and grandmother on the way into Ripon for dress shopping. They’d be a lady and a chauffeur again, not friends, or even humans, really. Sybil would be stiff and she would have to titter lightly at the societal quips her mother wielded like darts and Branson would have to offer his hand to her as she climbed into the motor and it would all be so terribly, terribly awkward.

“I hope so too,” she said at last, just as Branson looked as though he was regretting his forwardness.

She distantly recognized he was preparing to leave, and the warmth that had been pulsing in her veins turned icy cold. Her hip was _aching_.

“Are we going to be friends?” he blurted, and Sybil could’ve cried.

“I think so,” she whispered, and suddenly, his eyes were flicking down to her lips and she felt herself falling forwards ever so slightly.

“Branson, I-,” she started, and then the door was flung open behind her and Branson stiffened, looking more like a statue than the warm person she had nearly _kissed_ , bloody hell. Sybil glanced over her shoulder to see Daisy standing awkwardly in the doorway, a pail of supplies in hand.

“I- I’m sorry, milady, I didn’t know-,” she stammered, eyes flicking towards the fireplace and then back into the hall.

“No, Daisy, it’s quite alright. I believe Branson was just leaving.”

Daisy smiled awkwardly, looking distressed. Branson’s emotionless eyes stung as he left with the Locke and Dickens in hand. Sybil felt like crying again, though for entirely different reasons, and she took a shaky breath as Daisy hurried to the hearth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the die is cast xp
> 
> let me know what you think!
> 
> •••
> 
> i may be ace but i'm a hoe for comments <33


	3. A Trip to York

Sybil tried smiling surreptitiously when she took Branson’s hand to get into the car the next day, but he didn’t even meet her eyes. She swallowed hard and sat primly on the seat while her mother went on about some bachelor she had found from London with good prospects. It looked like Branson’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, but Sybil was probably imagining things.

 

•••

 

He gave her some Pankhurst pamphlets a few days after and they exchanged a few words that didn’t feel entirely false. It was enough for Sybil to keep hope that they were still friends, and after she had worn the words to thread, she tucked the pamphlets beneath her pillow and imagined Branson’s hand on her hip as she slept.

 

•••

 

Sybil went down to the garage to ask Branson to take her and Edith into Ripon for a society meeting, nerves hot in her stomach. He was under the Renault when she got there, and she couldn’t help but grin hopefully when he came rolling out rather comically. Branson gave a half smile, and though it was forced, it offered Sybil a small sense of peace.

 

•••

 

Edith went flying out of the car when they returned, seeing Anthony Strallan’s own motor hovering out front. Sybil watched her go sadly, for she had a crippling feeling that Sir Anthony wouldn’t say Edith’s words, at least not for a long time.

“Your sister’s going to get her heart broken,” Branson said, Sybil’s hand in his as she hopped down to the ground.

“Yes,” Sybil said breathlessly, knowing she sounded rather too happy for the subject matter. But Branson was sincere again and the pure relief that washed over Sybil at the notion was too strong to comprehend without reaching to the extremes she would rather like to avoid. “Yes, she is.”

Branson looked down at the gravel and Sybil hesitated for a moment, carefully taking her hand from his. She could feel Thomas watching them from the front door.

“You’re not going to court the bachelor, are you?” he said suddenly, eyes shooting up again, as intense as ever. Sybil was shot again.

“What? What, Branson, no! I have no plans on doing anything with any of Mama’s bachelors.”

A genuine smile graced his lips for a moment before he too noticed Thomas’s scrutiny and Sybil scurried onwards. She felt lighter than air.

 

•••

 

They were comfortable again after that, and she found as many excuses as possible to go down to the garage before they decided to meet in the library in the mornings to talk alone. Gwen joined sometimes to report on her progress with her job search and, for once, Sybil felt as though she had true friends.

She got to be Sybil more and more frequently, and it was a blessing like no other. They read together and discussed the news and debated the points of Paine or Machiavelli. Branson- who became Tom- brought food sometimes, and they muffled their laughter when Sybil tried gin for the first time and promptly turned a brilliant shade of crimson.

It was thrilling to have a secret and it was more so to have an outlet for everything her journal had soaked up previously. It was a joy unknown and an adventure she knew was rare and special. The feeling in Sybil’s chest sat there permanently, and life without it started to seem unnatural.

She wondered if it had a name.

Love, maybe.

 

**Spring 1914**

 

The notion of love reared its head again when Mary announced a tentative engagement to Matthew, sending Edith into a sullen few days, as Sir Anthony had been scarce as of late. Sybil was quietly joyous, for she had a sneaking suspicion that Mary and Matthew were exceedingly perfect together. Perhaps _soulmate_ perfect.

Despite their discussions on a wide range of topics, Tom had never once brought up soulmates, and perhaps due to Sybil’s curious feelings, she didn’t dare do so herself.

She came to realize she feared the answer. The feeling couldn’t be denied, and it was unlikely to be anything but a sort of pseudo-bond. Why else would she and Tom have struck up such an unlikely friendship? Why else would the feeling have started with his mention and why else would it react with such intensity to him, and only him?

But what if Tom was blank or despised soulmarks, or simply didn’t return her affections? It was entirely possible, and it kept Sybil awake long into the night.

But it was love: she was sure of it.

 

**July 1914**

 

Mary cried into Sybil’s shoulder the day war was announced. She had lost Matthew twice in one day, and even Edith looked sympathetic. Downton was drenched in a heavy sorrow for things that had not yet occurred.

Sybil caught sight of her soulmark quite by accident- she had stumbled into Mary’s room one night after a long evening of fretting over the news in the garage with Tom looking for comfort and had caught a glimpse of Mary passing her fingers over her words, now turned a deep olive brown- the color of Matthew’s uniform. Her heart sank and when Mary looked up at her, furious and hurt, she could do little but shut the door and slink off into the hallway.

Someone had said Mary’s words.

 

**September 1916**

 

Sybil expected the war to come crashing through Ripon like a great ungainly beast and tear its way through the Abbey like a potter through clay. Instead, war seeped in through the cracks around the window frames and in the seals of draft notices and the slow but steady decline of footmen.

It seemed that someone new was gone every day, and she and Tom talked of the war every morning until the subject was worn thin and the cold, clipped telegraphs turned into open wounds. They sat in silence more and more often, relishing in the pre-dawn hours when the papers and letters had yet to make their rounds and the war could remain far away, locked out by their temporary ignorance to its fresh horrors. Sybil brought a sketchbook down and drew the faces of the men who left so she would not forget them. Tom watched her with a sort of resigned despair. He had yet to be called up, but the possibility was so very real. It made Sybil sick to think of a life without him, whether it was just for a few months or for all eternity.

She wondered if she would ever know if her soulmate suspicions were true, and the thought turned her cold from the inside out. She must know if Tom felt the same, or she would surely go mad.

It was after William left, leaving Carson and Tom alone in the men’s staff, that Sybil decided she must ask, for she might never have another chance.

“Tom,” she said carefully, watching his eyes track the movements of the dusty orange clouds. His gaze flicked to her and suddenly, faced with the piercing blue of his eyes, she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. Sybil glanced down at her hands. “You know, I’ve decided to become a nurse.”

Tom turned completely, eyebrows raised. “Really? I can’t say I’m surprised, but I wasn’t expecting it so soon.”

Sybil twisted her hands in her skirt. It had been sudden, but after the death of her friend Tom Bellasis, it seemed impossible for her to stand on the sidelines. “Yes, Cousin Isobel has got me set up in York for training. I expect you’ll have to get me there.”

He smiled, a little melancholy thing that made Sybil wonder if she was making the right decision. “Indeed. The estate will miss you. We all will.”

 

•••

 

Matthew was engaged to a slight redhead who Sybil rather liked, and even though Mary so wanted to hate Lavinia, it seemed she was going to slip between the cracks and drop into the dining room as a permanent fixture in their lives nonetheless.

Still, it made Sybil ache to think of Mary’s soulmate marrying another girl. She watched Mary romance the visiting officers and, eventually, a sly newspaperman from London who Sybil thought smelled like week-old cod.

She exchanged glances with Edith, who couldn’t seem to choose between delight and sympathy, and thanked God she’d soon be out of the whole damned town.

**November 1916**

 

The ride to York was a different beast altogether. Sybil sat nervously, fiddling with her gloves until she wore a small hole in the finger, while Tom tried to distract her with tales of his antics as a boy in Dublin. She could hardly focus on what he was saying as the nerves built in her stomach. She had gone down to watch Doctor Clarkson work for a bit the day before and had nearly retched her throat up when she saw the state of some of the men.

“Sybil? Are you alright?”

She took a shuddering breath. “Yes.”

Tom eyed her through the mirror, incredulous. “You’re practically shaking.”

“I’m merely nervous. New start and all.”

“You’ll be fine. You can impress them with your Mrs. Patmore-certified cooking skills,” he called, voice stretching over the wind. The moor was stirring up quite a storm.

Sybil laughed. “Right. I can make that cake I burned all over again.”

“It tasted just fine, and that’s all these men ’ll care about.”

He was right, probably. Sybil had watched a new batch of injured unload at the hospital, and from the way they thanked her profusely for bringing some water and flavorless soup, they’d be happy to get their hands on anything, even a charred Victoria sponge.

Mary had warned her that the men in York would be far worse off. Ripon took only officers, and they were protected from the worst of it all. Sybil had read stories of men with only half a face and horrible disfigurements that seemed straight from a Poe story. But she did have a strong constitution, and after the initial shock of the wounds, she had worked quite efficiently under Clarkson’s instruction. Tom said she had a will to learn and a stubbornness that would pull her through the nasty parts. She certainly hoped so.

They pulled into the driveway at York just as the church bell in town stuck noon, and Sybil took a moment to compose herself while Tom slowed the car. He was watching the men in the yard with something akin to fear, and Sybil closed her eyes.

“Come on, Sybil, the opening program’s in half an hour.”

The part of Sybil’s mind that wasn’t otherwise occupied with despair managed to take his hand and follow Tom across the yard to the archway, where a sign directing her to the mess hall stood. She stopped, the short walk bringing her back to reality, meeting Tom’s icy blue eyes again. She couldn’t help but think it may be the last time. Two months was plenty of time for a healthy man to get drafted and sent overseas and killed. Her stomach churned.

“You must promise to write me,” Sybil said at last, sounding vaguely helpless.

“Only if you do.” Tom tried to crack a grin, but it came out crooked and false.

There was something tense between them, she realized. Something unsaid and dangerous. The feeling in her chest had gone deathly still, and the sounds of the men exercising in the yard faded into a distant hum, like honeybees in the summer. Tom’s hands were folded in front of him and he looked more like a servant than a friend.

A door swung open across the courtyard and a matronly woman poked her head out, looking to see if Sybil was lost. Tom smiled and nodded his goodbye, returning to the car to take her case around to the back. His hair was ringed golden in the sun and the usual saunter of his gait looked more like an act than it normally did. He pushed his cap on jauntily and Sybil’s breath caught in the back of her throat, the beginnings of a sob lodged there like a fish on a line. She watched him go, suddenly alone, and hated the feeling of desolate desperation that rose within her.

She would miss him more than she would like to admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor sybil, honestly


	4. Cucumber Sandwiches

_Dearest Tom-_

_Things are settling in here, at long last. My roommate is altogether alluring and mysterious- not the nurse type whatsoever- but I believe we will be friends. Her name is Alice and she says that I have sad eyes. I don’t quite know how to describe her, and I imagine she will be a figure of both distress and intrigue in my life here, as well as a specter in my letters, so I mention her now. You will be pleased to hear that she will be inspiring me to be rebellious in your absence. I have spotted her with a flask on multiple occasions, so I know that if things get too difficult, I can always escape down that road, as you said._

_I miss our library chats with vigor, for I find I have no daily outlet for the storm of thoughts this hospital causes in me. I sometimes wish I was still content with pouring it out into writing, but that would suggest we had never met, and I cannot bear the thought._

_I fear I ramble, for my world is a whir now, and it seems I am just comfortable in the environment before a new shipment of injured comes in and the atmosphere is uprooted. There is a permanent sadness here, and though I try to shake it, I am almost glad for its reminder of my work and why I have come here in the first place. My classes are interesting, and I can tell the training I am receiving is superb, but I long to be done already so I can do more to help the men I observe. It helps to know I am on course to do so, but I feel useless still. I can do little but sit with them when I have a free minute and pray for their health and fetch them what they request. The men have been nothing but kind, as well as the instructors and students, but still I yearn to leave and start work already. I am pulling at a tight seam, but I cannot help it._

_Enough of me- what of Downton? Mary has written a rather concise letter that gives little real information, so I hope you have interesting news. How are things downstairs? Is Mrs. Patmore being kind to Daisy? Is Carson still trying to serve an entire dinner by himself? Do try to convince him to let Anna help._

_And what of you? Have you done anything of interest lately? What is the news of Russia and the Pankhursts? I hope my father isn’t being too much of a bother for you. I know he can be overbearing and ungrateful sometimes._

_I have little time to write, so I doubt I’ll be the quick response you like during these few months, but write me anyway._

_\- Sybil_

•••

_Sybil-_

_Alice does indeed sound intriguing- a rebellious young nurse closed up in a hospital for a few months? A recipe for disaster, but an entertaining one nonetheless._

_Downstairs is operating as usual, if that is even possible. O’Brien is scheming in Thomas’s absence, but I think we’re all numb to it at this point. The new maid is less than favorable amongst most, as she holds grander and less reasonable dreams than even Gwen. Speaking of Gwen, have you heard from her as of late? I believe a suitor of hers was sent to the front, so I was hoping you would write to her for some comfort._

_I know little of the more intricate affairs upstairs, but L. Mary seems distant and sad, which may explain the nature of her letter. to you. L. Edith’s driving has improved, but I still don’t think your father is approving. He won’t go anywhere near a motor with her in the driver’s seat, at any rate, but sometimes, neither will I. Your mother is quarreling with Ms. Crawley, unsurprisingly, and the overall atmosphere is certainly tense. News from your cousin is scarce, and when it does come, it is little enough to appease anyone here, especially L. M._

_I am glad to hear you enjoy your course, but I can’t help but wish you were home. It is lonely without you, and the thoughts in my head threaten to become actions without an outlet. Don’t worry though- I have some self-control, though I know you think I don’t. Besides, if I step out of line, I’ll have to go back to Dublin, and then I doubt we’d see each other again. So, I hold my tongue._

_I believe you will find peace in your work, whether it is peace with yourself, or, rather, a lack of (unfounded) guilt, or peace with death, which I know you fear. The war has shaken us all, but it has profoundly changed you. You have a dedication now that I have never seen before in members of your lot, or many others, for that matter. The beginning is always frustrating, especially for someone like you, who has such vigor and determination and a sense of duty like no other. You must remain patient, for if you are not, all will be lost._

_I’m taking your sisters into town today, and I am fully prepared for an earful of their arguments, which I will report to you in my next letter._

_\- Tom_

 

**January 1917**

 

He came to pick her up again two months later, on a day where the sky turned a bleak gray and the wind bit at Sybil’s nose as she stood with the rest of her class at the edge of the yard. Happiness bubbled within her at the thought of seeing Tom again. Oh, she had truly missed him so. She had missed his smile and his laugh and the strength of his hand when he helped her out of the car and his voice when he grew passionate. A giddiness she didn’t trust had risen into her throat until she nearly choked on it, nearly bounced in strange glee. Alice eyed her curiously and Sybil sobered up, and luckily so, as the roar of a motor was fast approaching.

She recognized his profile immediately and it took every bit of her self-restraint to keep herself from flying at him for an embrace. He flicked his eyes over his shoulder to the carriage, and Mary’s regal silhouette flattened Sybil’s exuberance in an instant.

Mary smiled and let herself out of the car while Tom went around to gather Sybil’s things.

“Sybil, darling,” she said, rather simpering. Alice coughed loudly.

“Hello, Mary,” Sybil said, sheepish. Tom looked at her from over Mary’s shoulder with great sympathy and amusement and Sybil scrunched her nose at him as Mary took her in an embrace.

It was going to be a long way home.

 

**May 1917**

 

Tom had pushed the Renault to its limit and Sybil felt like she was flying. They were coasting down the back road under the pretense of driving Sybil to a picnic with Alice. It wasn’t necessarily false, as she did live nearby, but the pervasive guilt of her lie burned away in the wind anyway.

She was laughing and clutching her hat, picnic basket kicked under the seat, Tom’s livery jacket wrapped around her shoulders. Her sheer frock did little to keep her warm in the spring air, but she was glad for wearing it if it meant she got to wear Tom’s clothes.

_I really must stop thinking like that._

“What do you think?” Tom called over the roar of the wind. Sybil shrieked in glee as they crested a hill and went soaring down again. He glanced back at her, standing against the partition with her hair twisted around her face, and grinned.

“I love it! Oh, there, on the left-.”

“By the grove?”

“Yes, it’s just over the hill, I think,” Sybil panted, exhilarated and awake and blissfully happy. Tom pulled the Renault to the side of the road and turned in the seat to face her, cheeks flushed a deep crimson from the wind and the sun. His eyes glinted a milky blue in the daylight, fingers but millimeters from hers on the back of the seat. She felt breathless in a whole other way, fighting the urge to fidget under his piercing gaze. They watched each other in a sort of a blind fascination, and Sybil felt nothing but relief. Relief that she was home, that Tom was alive, and relief that they were alone together again.

She swallowed hard and broke their stare to fetch the basket. Her heart was pounding and she was suddenly overcome with the scandal of it all- to be caught with the chauffeur, alone, wearing his jacket, in the middle of nowhere under false pretenses would surely ruin her and Tom both.

But when had she ever cared about that?

Tom came around to get the door for her and, though it felt odd, Sybil took his hand to jump down to the grass below. She met his eyes again, frozen in each other’s stares, and she felt the sudden and undeniable urge to lean forward as she had in the library that first morning and-

“Mrs. Patmore has packed us some of the cucumber sandwiches you like,” she said, stopping her rapidly derailing thoughts. Good God.

“You’re quite the magician, Sybil,” he said, sounding rather strained.

Tom didn’t drop her hand as they started down the slope, and the feeling purred happily in her chest. She blushed, though she shouldn’t have, and squeezed Tom’s hand.

The grass swayed before them and the wind tousled Sybil’s hair, tangling it and catching it in the weave of her hat. Tom glowed in the light and watched the grove of trees at the bottom of the hill with deliberate interest, as if he was trying to focus his attention on anything but Sybil and her hand in his. She wondered if she should drop it. She watched him intently, trying to name the nearly undetectable shift in his mood since they had started walking- or, really, the past week. He’d been different, quieter and sadder and he did everything as if he was savoring normality.

The feeling was growing cold, sending shivers of warning down Sybil’s spine and ghosting goosebumps over her skin. The sun abruptly seemed unrealistically bright, almost chilly in its distance, indifferent to and unconcerned with the pair standing in its great bright shadow.

Tom, rather belatedly, squeezed back, and Sybil was thankful for the coat over her shoulders to keep her weighted down on Earth, for she feared she would fly away in joy.

Her skirt brushed against her hip and the skin there tingled, reaching out to the pressure in her chest. Something clicked like the final piece of the puzzle she and Edith had loved so much as children, the knot at the end of a long string, and Sybil felt sick with a cruel mixture of grief and relief and astonishment.

How could she have been so blind?

Tom said something about the shade of green ahead of them matching the sprigs of leaves embroidered on Sybil’s bodice and she forced herself to stay grounded and reasonable and not try to crawl into his bones in hopes of finding the warmth her romance novels described.

It would be hard, if she were right. A Lady and a chauffeur would never go over well with London high society, much less her father, and the gossip would trail them like a mocking bridal veil for all eternity. But Sybil had done hard things before and would do them again if need be, and Tom was worth everything. Still, a cold fear crept into her mind, for leaving with Tom meant estranging herself from her parents and sisters and Downton for forever.

She’d be a laughing stock at any other hospital, and she had little enough experience to truly pass as a nurse, even if they did get over the hilarity of a Crawley sister getting her hands bloody. Tom would be forever barred from working for any man or woman of money or a title, and the scandal would cling to them everywhere they went. And that was all if the actual eloping went well, but the possibility of Sybil’s father shutting her up in a room for months and firing Tom with no letter was more than realistic.

But then again, sneaking about behind the others’ backs wouldn’t do either, and so they were hopelessly trapped.

Sybil brewed in bitter speculation as they spread the picnic blanket at the edge of the grove’s shade, settling there in the sun for a peaceful luncheon.

She pressed her knee against his as they sat and delighted in the contact, no matter how small it was.

All she needed was for him to say the words. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the tension buildsss
> 
> •••
> 
> i may be ace but i'm a hoe for comments <33


	5. Holding His Hand

Edith was waiting for her when she returned, arms folded stiffly, standing in the middle of Sybil’s room. They had returned as late as they dared, Tom having told Carson he would rather just loiter at the edge of the road in the car as Sybil and her friend ate than drive back and then back again. Sybil had paused in the sitting room to try and press down her flyaway locks and cool the color in her cheeks, but she still nearly looked debauched, and she could tell Edith thought the same in the way her eyes narrowed.

“Where have you been?” she said crossly.

Sybil slowed, standing in the doorway with her gloves halfway off, watching Edith carefully. She hoped she looked confused and innocent rather than defensive, but her poker face had always been horrid.

“On a picnic with a friend of mine from York?”

“Oh, _really_ ,” Edith hissed, yanking Sybil inside and closing the door firmly behind them. “You mustn’t pull that with me.”

“Edith, what do you mean?” Sybil threw her gloves carelessly onto the pillow, anger bubbling within her as Edith watched her with disgust.

“I come by that grove on the way to Mr. Drake’s farm, you know. I saw the car sitting by the road, empty, and then I looked down the hill…”

True fear crept into Sybil at the notion, cold and tight. Her palms grew damp and the thought of the conversation being anything but a terrible dream seemed preposterous. “What of it?”

Edith sneered. “He’s a chauffeur, Sybil. A chauffeur!”

“Not so loud!” she cried, leaping at her sister and slamming a hand over her mouth. “Please, Edith, let’s talk civilly.”

“There’s nothing civil about courting a chauffeur. You’re _mad_.”

“We’re not _courting_ , Edith. We are merely friends!” Sybil dragged her to the edge of the bed and tugged them both onto it, holding Edith’s hands tightly to ensure she wouldn’t run off.

“He was holding your hand! Friends don’t hold hands, Sybil, and ladies certainly don’t befriend _servants_ in the first place.” The way Edith spat the words made Sybil reel back in shock.

“What do you mean? He’s a person, isn’t he? We are similar people, Edith, that is all, and I can’t help it if you’re jealous of our friendship-.”

_“Jealous?”_ Edith exclaimed, tearing her hands from Sybil’s grasp and standing quickly. “I _never_.”

Sybil felt helpless, trapped beneath her sister, a desperate wench on a bed, scorned and belittled. Edith’s eyes were sharp, and Sybil knew she was right, for the telltale twitch of jealousy passed over her lips, as if she were on the verge of tears.

“You’re jealous,” she said in quiet confidence. “You’re jealous that I have a friend like Tom. You’re upset that I’m not trying to battle for Mary’s position like you are, and you’re upset because I would justify you if I was.”

Edith scoffed. “You’re silly, Sybil. How could I be jealous of something that will never survive?”

“Better to lose than to have never had,” Sybil spat back, a slight guilt at her low blows dampening her anger.

A sharp rap at the door startled them both, and Mary let herself in without a response. “I heard a quarrel.”

“Oh, must you always insert yourself into everybody’s business?” Edith said, clipped and harsh. Mary tilted her head, taking in Sybil’s position on the bed under Edith and the clear distress on her face.

“Something interesting, then, I hope?”

Edith sighed. “Sybil’s York friend is none other but the chauffeur.”

Mary’s eyebrows went up. “Branson? You’re courting Branson?”

Sybil shook her head frantically. “We’re only friends, Mary, I promise.”

“You were _holding his hand!”_ Edith cried, slamming her palm against the bedpost.

Mary sat primly on the end of the bed, reaching out to lace Sybil’s fingers with hers. “Sybil, is it true?”

She paused, flicking between Mary’s concern and Edith’s fury. There was no way of getting around Edith’s eyewitness account, and even if she got her hide tanned by her sisters, Tom would keep his job. She sighed. “Yes, I’ll not deny it, but you must know the whole story.”

“Oh, goodness, a _story_ ,” Edith muttered, leaning against the wall and waiting with pointed impatience. 

Mary snapped a glare at her. “Edith, be still.”

Edith, bristled and yet withered under Mary’s stare, giving Sybil a moment to breathe and gather her thoughts before launching into her tale.

“Well, I- I’ve been going down to the library in the mornings, before even Daisy wakes sometimes, to read without Papa getting cross. And one morning, soon after Tom was hired- yes, Edith, his name is Tom- he came in when I did. Papa told him he could loan books as we do, and he was looking for Marx but didn’t see me for a bit. I didn’t know him and then I startled him in hopes to scare him off. Of course, I learned of his identity and we soon became friends. I’ve been meeting him in the library in the morning for nearly four years now, I think. Since he came, really.”

Even Mary looked surprised by this, eyes wide. “Forward, Sybil.”

Sybil looked down and traced the patterns of the bedsheet with her finger. “And then I went to York and we wrote each other often and when I returned we decided to go for a picnic, and… and Edith saw us, holding hands as we walked.”

“So that part’s true?”

“Yes, Mary. We held hands, but that’s it, truly. We talk of politics and matters of the heart and everything in between. He’s really brilliant, you know. He makes me feel happy, and that’s all there is to it.”

They were quiet, Mary watching Sybil intently, as if she was trying to puzzle her out. The sun still hung in the sky, illuminating the room in a melancholy yellow, the dust caught in each beam.

Edith sighed at last, straightening and sitting heavily on the bed, a discrete show of solidarity. Sybil couldn’t help but be immensely relieved.

“But befriending a chauffeur-,” she started.

Sybil huffed. “Oh, do stop calling him that. It’s demeaning.”

“Fine,” Edith begrudged. “But befriending _Branson_ seems rather odd, even for you, Sybil.”

“Well, perhaps.”

“What aren’t you telling us?” Mary said at last.

Sybil looked up quickly, defensive again. “I’m telling you the truth, Mary, you must believe me.”

“Yes, but there’s something else. I know you, Sybil, remember?”

“Yes, I suppose you do, but not everything I do is formulaic.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “I’m not trying to offend you, Sybil. I’m on your side, but you have to admit that you’d have to be mad or madly in love to do the things you’re doing. Running around behind Papa’s back with a servant? Holding hands? Honestly, that’s just unusual.”

Sybil worried her bottom lip and eyed the clock on her mantle. She had two hours to convince both sisters to stand with her and promise not to reveal them. A daunting task, truly, but things seemed less dismal than they had at the outstart.

“I mean, I’ve had this… this feeling since I met him.”

Mary gestured her on, and Sybil wavered.

“Right from the beginning there was this connection and then this- this pressure, in my chest, and it reacts to him.”

“What?” Edith said, low and cautious.

“It’s like a cat, almost, and it curls up and feels happy or draws its claws and bristles in me and it all has to do with Tom.”

“And?” Mary prompted.

“And I think he’s my soulmate?”

 

•••

 

Dinner was tense, with Edith pointedly looking anywhere but Sybil’s face and Mary smiling tersely every time she cleared her throat or responded to a question about the hospital. Isobel and her grandmother were squabbling, as always, about turning Downton into a convalescent home, and the fact that none of them had heard of Matthew or William for a few weeks was sending them into silent, deadly speculation.

Sybil picked at her chicken, scuffing her toes against the floor in nervous impatience until the last glass of wine had been sipped and the women began to file out of the room. Sybil feigned a headache and snuck out to the garage, reveling in the crisp night air.

She knocked carefully, wondering if she should have concocted a plan for how to break the news to Tom (for she must; it was unfair to leave him blind to the truth). Sybil peaked around the doorframe to see Tom bent over the engine, fiddling with some tools, hands coated in dark oil.

“Hello,” she said softly, slipping into the room and closing the door behind her, praying no wandering servant had seen her.

He straightened quickly, wiping his hands on a filthy rag on his workbench, smiling and closing the bonnet with a click. “How was dinner?”

“A beastly thing, but more so because of what happened when I returned.”

“Oh?”

Sybil took a deep breath and took one of Tom’s hands in her own. “Edith saw us today.”

Tom went an interesting shade of white. “Are you certain?”

“She confronted me and then Mary appeared and- well, long story short, both now know of our friendship.” She twisted her hands, unable to help the nervous shiver in the edge of her voice.

Tom tilted his head curiously and Sybil tried hard not to wither under his unreadable stare. At last, he sighed and took up Sybil’s other hand, holding her fast. “So what, Sybil? I’m not ashamed of us. Are you ashamed?”

“What?” she spluttered. “What, Tom, no! I’m not ashamed, I’m just worried that Papa will find out and then we’ll both be out on the streets!”

Tom barked a laugh, dropping her hands and turning to fiddle with his tools. “Really, because it sounds like you’re ashamed. You’re ashamed because Mary and Edith knowing makes this all real to you-.”

“It’s already real to me, Tom, what do you mean?”

“-and now you’ve realized that it’s absurd for us to be just friends, because friends don’t act like we do, which means you’re in love with me and you can’t handle the idea of being in love with the _chauffeur_ ,” Tom snapped, hurt lining the hunch of his shoulders. Sybil went still at once, trying to ignore the fact that Tom had been exceedingly accurate.

“I’m not ashamed,” she said at last, stiffening and drawing herself up in resolution.

Tom rounded on her, a strange sort of desperation in his eyes. “Well, then, come with me,” he begged. “Come with me to Dublin and marry me and do whatever comes next.”

“Tom,” Sybil gasped. “Tom, you know I can’t, I have my work and my family and… and my sisters.”

“You can find work in Dublin and I’ll not keep them away. If they decide to scorn us, they can, but we’ll not keep them away, I promise!”

“It’s more complicated than that!” she cried, slamming her hand down on the workbench.

“It really, really, isn’t, Sybil! It comes down to whether or not you love me! That’s it! The rest is detail!”

And everything froze like the pond out back in winter and Sybil stood shock-still, hands curled protectively over her heart. Tom was somewhere between fury and tears, clutching a wrench like a lifeline, and the feeling pulsed angrily in her chest as if it was trying to break free and pull Tom in to her.

She glanced at the floor to avoid his piercing eyes, hoping Tom could feel her desperation and sadness somehow. “I’ve got to get back soon, or they’ll suspect-,” she started, keeping her voice quiet enough to mask the emotions threatening to overcome her. Sybil began to turn towards the door.

He reached out for her then and his fingers caught her hip, just barely pressing through the layers of thick fabric, but her breath hitched nevertheless. It couldn’t have been an accident, or it would have gone to the natural curve of her waist, where her frock was gathered. But her _hip_ \- it made her heart jump and warmth spread out from her spine to her fingertips. He had to know it was there, for he was touching the words exactly. It had to have been subconsciously intentional, and maybe Sybil should be frightened or aghast or offended, but it felt astonishingly perfect, and how could it ever be wrong for her _soulmate_ to touch her like that?

“Because _I_ love _you_ ,” Tom said quietly. “And I’m sorry, but I can’t wait anymore.”

Sybil blinked back hot tears of frustration and grief and forced herself from his grasp, leaving him standing utterly alone in the middle of the garage with his hand outstretched as she ran into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof i cannot write arguments. 
> 
> also there is kind of only angst for the next chapter and a half so watch out :p
> 
> •••
> 
> i may be ace but i'm a hoe for comments <33


	6. Older and Wiser and In Love

**November 1917**

 

Sybil walked to the hospital and back every day afterwards, avoiding the garage and the roar of the motor and Tom’s blue eyes like the plague. Edith watched her with an eagle’s eye, especially once Sybil moved her shifts nearly permanently to Downton to aid the nurses in their movements about the estate. She felt like a butterfly in a case, pinned down by her sister’s watchful gaze. It was to ‘keep her safe’, certainly, though Sybil didn’t know if it was a misguided attempt at keeping Tom away or a nobler way to shield her fragile heart.

Either way, she felt like she was being tracked, with Edith on her heels at every moment under the pretense of learning. She was sullen after being sent away from the Drakes, and Sybil occasionally wondered what happened for it to be so, but she was too annoyed to care much about Edith’s frequent and unusual fancies. She was one to talk- going on about Tom being the chauffeur while practically drooling over a married farmer.

Sybil popped a top sheet violently and Edith looked at her like she was a petulant child denied another slice of cake.

“Really, you mustn’t be so loud. They’ve been through horrible things and the last thing we need to do is scare them,” she sniffed, smoothing the blankets over a cot by the windows. They were converting the sitting room into more bed space, alone together for once.

Sybil ignored her and tucked the corners with the efficiency Anna had taught her before she left for York. She’d seen Tom drive her father up to the house after a visit with Doctor Clarkson and was in a foul mood, and though she was perhaps being a tad aggressive in her bed-making, Edith had no right to glare at her like she was a shame to the family. She’d always been the black sheep, anyway.

“What?” Edith snapped. “You’re acting like I’m harassing you.”

“Aren’t you?”

“God, Sybil, not everything we do centers around you.”

“Then why are you following me about all the time? There are a dozen other nurses you could ‘learn’ from.”

“Yes, but none of them would let me because I have no training.”

“Francis and Lizzie are perfectly nice people. They would let you tag along if you only asked. You’re trying to make sure I don’t see Tom, or that he doesn’t see me!” Sybil ran her hands over a pillowcase sharply, jerking the fabric this way and that until it looked more like folded paper than anything else.

Edith glowered. “Well, you don’t seem to be able to care for yourself, so it seems I have to do it!”

“Honestly, Edith, I’m a grown woman,” Sybil bit, standing with her arms crossed to shield herself from Edith’s glare, or maybe to keep the twisting feeling in her chest from bursting forth to strangle her sister.

“Hardly!”

They stood facing, each at odds with the other for frivolous and altogether different reasons. Sybil felt rather like the Doomed Youth or the slighted Sibyl Vane, though it was pompous to consider herself anything other than a woman scorned by her own mistakes. She hated that Edith had a point.

Knowing she had no real response that didn’t involve blatantly lying to Edith’s face, she stormed out of the room to make herself busy elsewhere.

 

**January 1918**

 

Sometimes, when the night grew impossibly dark and still, it would dawn upon her that Tom Branson had said her words, that he truly loved her, and that she would one day say his. Maybe she already had and he knew that she was rejecting him anyway and she was tearing him apart and everything was her fault, wasn’t it?

 

**July 1918**

 

Matthew was missing and Mary was tearing herself to shreds with worry. Sybil could do little but assure her that he was a man of great strength and would fight to survive with every bone in his body, but that didn’t seem to go over well.

It was almost a relief to hear that he and William had been injured terribly, for injured was better than dead, and it would be a saving grace for Mary to have him close by.

She watched them reunite with vague jealousy, and with sadness as Lavinia took Mary’s spot by his bed. She busied herself with changing bandages nearby in order to listen in on their conversation (and she felt unbearable guilty as she did so), but the odd satisfaction that filled her at Matthew’s misguided nobility was so shameful that she quickly pushed it from her mind.

Nevertheless, it was a chance for Mary at last. Sybil smiled bitterly- at least one sister could be happy.

 

•••

 

She had been tasked with gathering more supplies from the hospital to take to Downton, and due to the steady downpour, her mother refused to let her walk there herself.

Tom was waiting, hair damp from the rain, with his back straight and his eyes painfully empty, expression blank. Sybil avoided his face and tried not to touch his hand more than necessary.

Sybil studied the toes of her boots as they rumbled down the drive, flicking the corner of the list in her pocket until the paper felt soft and pliable beneath her touch.

Tom cleared his throat as they reached open road and she glanced up at him out of habit. He quickly flicked his eyes back to the road and a part of her purred at the notion that he had been watching her through the mirror. She smiled carefully, trying to extend a proverbial olive branch, and Tom met her eyes for a second. She inhaled sharply, incapacitated by the raw sadness there.

“I’ve gotten my notice,” he said, and Sybil closed her eyes.

“What will you do?”

“Report, probably. Stand up to them just before I ship out. I can’t fight for them, Sybil,” he said, voice breaking. “I’d rather be shot for cowardice than defend the oppressor.”

She buzzed with the use of her Christian name, hope surging into her throat. Maybe he didn’t hate her after all, though she couldn’t blame him if he did. Still, the hope faded at the notion of Tom going to war, Tom in a trench with mud caked under his nails and blood smeared across his cheek, Tom in a hospital bed, Tom barely alive beneath her hands, Tom dead, Tom in a grave, Sybil in a black no one would understand.

Her stomach twisted and she blinked quickly to fend off the tears threatening to come forth.

“I know,” Sybil said at last. “Do what you must.”

 

•••

 

Sybil dreaded the day of the medical, and when Tom came back looking sullen, she nearly crumpled to the ground right then and there.

Though she felt terribly presumptive for doing it, as the air between her and Tom was still brittle and sore, she was waiting for him in the garage. She was chewing nervously on her fingernails when he set his jacket down over the back of his work chair.

“Well?” she managed.

“I’m unfit for service. Heart murmur or something.” He sounded astonished and perhaps a little upset. Sybil pressed a hand to her bosom and sighed in relief.

“Oh, thank God. I know you wanted to make a fool of the army and whatnot but thank _God_.” She felt like dancing, singing, praying, or maybe something else altogether.

Tom looked affronted, and Sybil wilted beneath his taut expression. _Of course_. She was imposing on his space after having turned him away. She was pretending she had a right to know about his medical, that they were still friends, that Tom even wanted to see her face.

“I- I’m happy that you’ll be safe for now. I don’t think Carson could stand losing another staff member,” she said stiffly and Tom scoffed a little, turning away to set about rearranging his wrenches.

She folded her hands in front of her and left quietly, walking to the bend in the gravel path where she would disappear from his sight before breaking into a run all the way to the sunken garden, where the tears she’d been fighting since that night in the garage finally overflowed.

Sybil sat on the ground by a bench with her head pillowed on her forearms like some Shakespearean tragic beauty or Cinderella or Isabella and her pot of basil. She felt like a silly little girl dressed in a uniform she didn’t deserve and a glittering frock she didn’t want. She felt like she had when she was little and would tramp around in her mother’s shoes, pretending to be older and wiser and in love.

She sobbed once before muffling herself with the sleeve of her dress, curling tighter around the cold edge of the bench.

Sybil loved him too, which was the problem. But loving Tom seemed unreal, unattainable. Her mother would faint dead away, her father would yell, and her sisters would watch her with steely eyes, disapproving of her final decision. If only things were different and marrying a man with a good earning and a good heart was a dream come true for her parents. She couldn’t stand to see the disappointment on their faces, and she felt flimsy for admitting it. She should love Tom enough to defy the will of her parents, and yet she found herself trying to defy the will of the stars instead.

She sat up and pushed the dampness out from under her eyes. She would sleep on it, for she did love Tom and having him hate her so was a torture unknown. Perhaps she would gather the courage to tell him the truth and walk away from everything she knew.

Perhaps Tom would forgive her.

 

**October 1918**

 

She could hardly stomach dinner that night. The way her sisters were snapping at one another under a thin disguise of propriety made anger itch under her skin. Her parents simpered over her and made the cursory inquiries about Matthew’s health, but nothing of substance wormed its way into the conversation. The talk of the nearing end of the war had been worn out already, and though it had ruled their lives for longer than Sybil had ever dreamed it would, she couldn’t bring herself to care much about military movements and peace talks. Not, at least, when the speech in her diary had extended over page after page, crossed out and rewritten and crossed out again.

Mary eyed her suspiciously as Sybil made her excuses to leave the drawing room, stumbling out into the night, gasping for air.

She had little time, for the end of the war would mean that the cogs of the world would shift again and Tom might be one of the pawns it sent flying. The thought of him leaving Downton without her despite the end of the threat of the draft was unbearable.

Sybil again made her way to the bench where she had cried and played absentmindedly with a leaf she found there, pulling it apart and grinding its thin green coating to dust between her fingers.

She sighed and looked up to the stars, wondering why the feeling in her chest was so still and why the thought of Tom’s soulmark flitted across her mind so often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay but the downton teaser was amazing?? i'm so pumped and i'm highkey praying that its reincarnated matthew on the motorcycle, having finally upgraded from his bicycle days. 
> 
> •••
> 
> i may be ace but i'm a hoe for comments <33


	7. Rosebuds

**December 1918**

 

The war was over and Christmas was upon them, and Sybil handed Tom his gift from the family. It was supremely awkward, and Mary kicked the back of her ankle to keep them from lingering too long with cold eyes on pleading ones.

She squabbled with her father to remain a nurse during the recovery period for the dwindling number of wounded at the hospital. Her father said that Tom had handed in his notice, planning to leave at the turn of the seasons to join family back in Dublin after the death of a cousin in a recent encounter with the police.

The feeling was pounding on her chest, urging her to act before it was too late, and a feeling of finality washed over her, settling like a fever chill on her skin.

 

**March 1919**

 

She was waiting for him when he returned from taking the Dowager Countess home one evening, hoping that his inexplicable fondness for her grandmother would mellow him out enough to listen to her speech. Sybil fidgeted, standing awkwardly where the Renault would park, looking over the carefully arranged tools and neatly folded rags and the picture of a small family with pale eyes propped up in the darkened window. She wanted to know them all so badly. She wanted to have a family less ruled by society and the whims of the economy and tabloids. Despite their straight, expressionless faces, there was a familiar gleam in each eye and a faint twitch of a smile on each mouth. It made something ache within her.

The rumble of the Renault coming down the path startled her, and she pressed herself against the workbench so he could pull the car in. Tom looked at her curiously as he slowed, and she smiled a little to urge him forward. The motor cut and he stepped out, advancing into the garage cautiously.

“Good evening,” she said.

“What are you here for?” Tom said, and his flat tone made her wince.

“I’m here to explain myself.”

Tom gave her little but a sardonic gaze in return.

She took a steadying breath and decided that taking the paper in her pocket out to read from was far too haughty and would highlight the exact thing Tom hated about her class.

“I first wanted to apologize. I was too surprised to think correctly, but that doesn’t excuse my blatant rudeness and lack of sympathy at the time. The problem is that you were right, in a sense.”

“I told you,” Tom said bitterly, aggressively scrubbing at a spot of grease on the workbench.

Sybil shook her head and took a step forward, trying not to lunge at him or fall to her knees and beg. “I’m not ashamed of loving you, but rather ashamed of the way I knew my family would react. Because I love them too, even though I know you find us all stiff and silly and unfeeling, and I couldn’t bring myself to face their disappointment.”

Tom had gone still, freezing with the rag in his hand.

Sybil smiled sheepishly. “But you _did_ say my words and though it’s taken me far too long, I do know that I love you and have for quite a long time. And I’m ready to follow that path- whatever it means- if you still want to love me.”

There was a spell of unbearable silence and Sybil wanted to scream, anxiety creeping up her spine with every second it took for Tom to speak.

Just as she was ready to walk back to the house, her words said and her head cleared, Tom looked over at her and tossed the rag down.

“Sybil, why’d it take you so long?”

“I don’t know, really, I wish it hadn’t and I’m terribly, terribly sorry-,” she scrambled, searching for the words to explain herself further, for she didn’t understand it herself, in the end. It all seemed so naïve and pointless when Tom was looking at her like that, like she was a precious jewel or a goddess or an ethereal faerie, and suddenly they were moving towards each other across the garage and Tom’s hands were on her waist and her feet weren’t touching the ground anymore. It felt like flying in the Renault again, wind in her hair, cheeks flushed and exhilaration thrumming through her veins, getting drunk off fresh air or, in this case, the taste of Tom’s lips on hers like it was a fine wine.

They caught, stilling together, Tom holding her up with her hands cupping his jaw. She was panting a little, she realized, the breath stolen from her lungs from the glorious kiss. Tom was holding her like she might disintegrate and fade away into the air, breathing heavily in time with her, eyes flicking desperately across her face as if he was trying to memorize her. She traced her fingers over his mouth and cried a bitted-off little laugh of delirious joy.

“I never hated you,” Tom breathed, setting her down carefully, hands still secure around her waist, tilting his thumbs down to press against her hips. She gasped sharply, fingers reaching up to twist in the hair behind his ears.

“You didn’t? I would have.”

“I just figured it was best for us to stay apart because I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you, you know. You’re beautiful, Sybil. Don’t act like you don’t know that,” he said, smiling down at her with the expression of a man who was realizing that he was dealing with reality. Sybil gave another short laugh of relief, tipping her head forward onto his chest and raising onto her toes to tuck herself under his chin.

“God, Tom, I do really love you.”

“And I you,” he whispered, and they fell back towards the stairs that wound up to the chauffeur’s rooms above.

 

•••

 

Later, they lay together into the morning as long as they dared, Sybil under the cover of a headache and a sound sleep before her morning shift. They were twined around each other, having rocked the bed against the wall with vigor until both succumbed to sleep for a few hours.

They remained buried under Tom’s scratchy blankets (they made up the most luxurious bed Sybil had ever slept in, though), Sybil tracing her fingers over the pale yellow words wrapping around Tom’s bicep. _Mrs. Patmore has packed us some of the cucumber sandwiches you like._

“I can’t believe my words to you are about cucumber sandwiches,” Sybil whispered, mildly horrified.

Tom laughed and pulled her close, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, a hand brushing over the gloriously blue writing on her hip. “Imagine my excitement when I met Mrs. Patmore on my first day, however.”

“I will say, seeing her name on your arm, especially when we… when we did what we did last night, is rather odd.”

“Oh _God_ , Sybil, I didn’t think of it like that,” Tom retched.

She laughed, and rolled him over so he was on top and trailed her fingers over her collarbones and down, down, down-

“Sybil, darling, you should be getting back soon,” Tom choked out, dropping his mouth down despite his words to suck against the soft place where Sybil’s neck met her shoulder.

“Mm, five more minutes?”

Tom made a sinful noise and Sybil bit down on her own lip. “Yes, _yes_ , five more minutes.”

 

•••

 

She slipped into the house twenty minutes later, probably looking thoroughly debauched, tiptoeing up the servants’ stair in the previous night’s frock. Lady Sybil Crawley, coming in at the crack of dawn after sleeping with the chauffeur: it was a scandal that would last the years, more so than Mary’s less-than-secret night with Mr. Pamuk.

Sybil laughed to herself, clasping a hand over her mouth as she crept into her room. Though she’d only slept a few hours, she felt as invigorated as ever, drunk off the taste of her _soulmate_ and the marks that were smattered down her neck. She inspected them in her mirror, adrenaline cooling into fear at the reaction of her parents when she and Tom were inevitably discovered. She patted cream and powder over the marks until they disappeared, which was both a relief and a melancholy metaphor.

Her fingers paused over the rosebud kisses across her throat, the travesty of their secretive nature dawning upon her as the sun rose higher over the grounds. She felt like Viola, masking herself and therefore her love, playing a part and romancing with society. She was Lily Elsie, standing on the stage with a face painted the cool white of the Merry Widow, acting out the rise and fall of Lady Sybil Crawley, the perfect daughter. She was a puppet, strings yanking her this way and that, each pull taking her away from Tom.

Sybil pulled on her uniform dress and her apron and pinned her headpiece on over her mussed hair, not bothering to comb it all out. It would erase the last mark of Tom in some poetic way, for his hands had been there and his hands had parted the strands and scrunched them up again and tugged and tangled and generally destroyed. Sybil had never felt more beautiful than she had there under his covers with her hair a mess and her skin dotted with pink.

She had never felt more like an imposter than there in her room, facing Nurse Crawley in the mirror, cheeks perpetually flushed and mind perpetually busy.

Sybil took a steadying breath and made her way downstairs, running into Anna on her way up to help Mary and Edith with their frocks. She darted down to the kitchen to nick a muffin from Mrs. Patmore’s pastry stash to eat on her walk, glad to have avoided her family for the time being. She could stay late at the hospital and retire early with the excuse of a long shift and then slip back out to Tom.

Her excitement at the prospect washed out her fear and the weight of her falsehoods, and she walked with a spring in her step and ate her muffin.

 

•••

 

They had avoided the subject for a week, appeasing the longing by Sybil sneaking out whenever possible to complete some interesting adventures in bed. (She didn’t even mind the idea of premarital romance, because they _were_ going to marry and they _were_ soulmates, which was perhaps the most scandalous aspect of all. Not caring was something unknown to most high-society girls. Sybil found it freeing.) Still, the feeling ached for more and more and more until she could hardly stand it.

“Tom,” she said, curled against his side as he wound his fingers through her hair, “I think I want to marry you.”

“I _know_ I want to marry you,” he said, sleep tinting the edges of his voice and a smile easing onto his face.

“O joy,” she laughed. “But I want to marry you now.”

“Oh,” Tom whispered. “So, you want to talk to your father?”

“I suppose I must.”

“You must tell them the truth, Sybil. That we are soulmates and we love each other.”

“Must I tell them what we’ve been doing for the past week?”

“Oh, God, please don’t.”

She laughed again and tilted her head back to peck her lips to the underside of his jaw. “I do love you so very much.”

“Then we will weather the storm, no matter its strength.”

 

**April 1919**

 

The storm was quite strong. The feeling- which could apparently do several things Sybil was previously unaware of- managed to call Tom to her during the screaming match. He had stood in vague shock as Sybil and her father hollered at each other, Mary had stifled laughter, and Matthew looked oddly proud. It was satisfying to march from the drawing room with Tom’s hand on her waist to gather her suitcase.

They slipped into the night, deciding not to steal the Renault as well as the youngest daughter, and ran off into the woods on foot to try and reach the station for the next train. Sybil felt more like herself than she had in a long time, with Tom’s hand in hers, the heels of her most practical shoes sinking into the soft earth, and the weight of her worldly possessions in her hand. She had a letter of recommendation tucked carefully between the pages of her diary and Tom had one from her father, which had been given well before the events of the evening, and though he felt wrong in taking her father’s now nullified praise, Sybil was relieved to have a backup plan if journalism didn’t work out.

She felt like a woman at last, standing firm in shoes of her own. Perhaps it was silly to feel grown-up while she was running off into the darkness with the chauffeur like some paperback she had bought in London, but nothing had felt more right.

Tom looked at her with a fondness so deep she felt she might frown in his eyes, and he glowed in the moonlight.

Sybil held his hand as they walked to the platform and settled with tickets in hand, knowing that if they came for them, they’d be long gone.

The tinny whistle of a far-off train sent shivers running down her spine, and she tucked herself close into Tom’s side, delighting in his warmth.

She was going to marry her soulmate, and maybe one day she could come back to Downton to see her dear sisters again, perhaps as a mother as well as a wife.

Tom smiled at her as they stood to board, and she smiled back, hands laced between them as they waited on the edge of the platform, alone and deliciously in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i'm bad at happy endings, but ohhh well. anyway, thanks for sticking around and leaving such lovely comments! 
> 
> •••
> 
> i may be ace but i'm a hoe for comments <33

**Author's Note:**

> everything is prewritten, just not edited, so i'll be posting every couple of days or so. also i'm hungry for those HITS
> 
> anyway lmk what you think so far! also please tell me if you notice any spelling/grammar errors :p. 
> 
> •••
> 
> tumblr, if it hasn't self destructed: thebriars
> 
> i may be ace but i'm a hoe for comments <3


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